


Jackson Might Not be Full of Shit 100% of the Time

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Post-Nogitsune, Pre-Slash, can be read as preslash if you want, referenced panic attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:49:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles does't talk to anyone about the panic attacks or the nightmares, not if he can help it, but somehow people still know that he isn't sleeping, or eating, or really doing anything but going through the motions. Lydia sends Jackson to Stiles' house (threats may or may not have been involved), convinced that if they talk, it will help.</p><p>“Why?” Stiles asks. “Why the hell am I talking to that pretentious piece of sh-”</p><p>“Because I said so,” Lydia says, voice still dangerous. “Now, math homework.”</p><p>or</p><p>The one where Stiles realizes that if there's anyone in the world who would literally understand exactly what he's going through, it's Jackson fucking Whittemore</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jackson Might Not be Full of Shit 100% of the Time

Stiles is completely done with today. He wasn’t able to sleep last night so he’s basically stumbling through the day on autopilot and hoping he doesn’t crash. The therapist his dad is making him see (Derek recommended him, apparently he’s in the know about the supernatural shit) had asked him during their session that morning if Stiles had been sleeping well. Stiles had given him a flat look, right when he was done trying to hold back a violent yawn,

All he wants to do is go home and get away from the concerned looks of his friends and dad, but apparently the world is conspiring against him so that just doesn’t happen. Instead, Lydia is dragging him to her house to study. 

“You missed a lot of work, Stiles,” Lydia says, pointing to her bed. “Sit.”

“I didn’t _miss_ work, I was busy being possessed by a thousand year old fox-bug, yeah my bad,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

Lydia looks at him flatly. “Math, now.”

He appreciates the effort, really, he does, but he still can’t shake the feeling that it’s forced, that his friends and fighting to stay his friends. Every time one of them takes a little too long to smile or he catches them looking a little too long, he tenses up and wishes he were anywhere else. 

Lydia’s been the best, surprisingly. He’d expected a lot of avoiding, refusal to touch him, and a whole lot of flinching, especially since she was with him when she felt Allison die, but she’s been the most aggressive in seeking him out. Scott’s great, always checking on Stiles to make sure he’s okay, eating and sleeping, all that. But sometimes it’s like being swaddled in a hot, electric blanket and sometimes he’s just sweating. Lydia doesn’t coddle, and thank sweet Jesus for that. She drags him around like old times, like the Queen Lydia that she is. It’s a refreshing afternoon, being treated like a normal human instead of like he’s made of glass.

Then she has to go and ruin it with, “Jackson’s coming back.”

Stiles freezes with his pencil hovering over his worksheet. “He-what?”

“Jackson is coming back,” Lydia says. She looks up at him from where she’s correcting his economics homework and raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, okay?” Stiles says slowly. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Lydia says. “We’ve been talking for months.”

“You have?”

“Yes,” Lydia says. “And we are perfectly capable of being friends without clawing the other’s eyes out.”

“I’m happy for you,” Stiles says sincerely. Lydia gives him a look that plainly says she doesn’t believe him. “No, seriously,” Stiles says. “He was a huge part of your life. He’ll always have been a huge part of your life and it’s good to not hate a huge part of your life.”

Lydia gives his another look and this time it’s more thoughtful. “I’m proud of you,” she says finally, just when Stiles was starting to fidget. 

“Yeah, you mature fast when you ruin everything around you,” Stiles says with a shrug. Lydia smacks him with her physics book. 

“My point is, I think you should talk to him,” Lydia says.

Stiles gives her a look like she’s lost her damn mind. 

“Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Excuse me?” Lydia says, arching an eyebrow dangerously.

“Yeah, that sounds perfect,” Stiles says, like he isn’t in mortal peril. “That’d be the cherry on top of a great year, not only full of death, despair, and darkness, but I could have the joy of Jackson mocking the shit of me and probably making jokes about all the shit I did, oh and for the hell of it, probably stuffing me into a locker again! That sounds perfect, Lydia, thanks for the suggestion.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Lydia says coldly. Her eyes are narrowed, lips in a thin line and if Stiles didn’t know her, he probably would run for his life. As it is, he does know her, he doesn’t run, merely shrinks back and feels vaguely like a caterpillar about to be eaten by a bird. “Jackson’s plane arrives tomorrow morning, and he’ll be back in Beacon Hills and at your house by 5:00 pm.”

“And-and if he doesn’t _want_ to talk to me? I’m pretty sure Jackson sees me as a speck of dirt on his designer sunglasses,” Stiles says.

“I’ve already talked to Jackson,” Lydia says. “And he will be at your house by 5:00 pm.”

“Why?” Stiles asks. “Why the hell am I talking to that pretentious piece of sh-”

“Because I said so,” Lydia says, voice still dangerous. “Now, math.”

That’s how Stiles finds himself sitting alone in living room the next night at 4:50 pm, wondering what exactly happened in his life that led him to this moment. His dad is at the station, trying to sort out some kind of multi-car, drunk driving accident, so Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to be gone for a while. Stiles is a little grateful for that, because as much as he loves his dad, he really doesn’t feel like explaining why the bully that tormented him all through school is coming over. He’s pretty sure his dad would easily accept ‘Lydia said so’ as an answer, but you never know.

By the time 5:30 rolls around, Stiles has convinced himself that Jackson is actually coming over to kick his ass, probably as some form of sick, revenge torture that Lydia’s been cooking up. Never mind that the rational part of his mind knows that Lydia would never do that, that she’s one of his best friends, but the part of his mind that’s scarred by the nogitsune, the part that says he’s never going to be okay ever again, is sure that his friends are the new ticking time bomb. It could be months, it could be years, but eventually his friends are going to realize that he’s broken. They’re going to notice how fucked up he is and all the death and shit he’s caused and that’ll be that.

The doorbell rings, interrupting his little downward spiral, and Stiles never would have thought he’d be grateful for Jackson. It keeps ringing, because Jackson is a dick, until Stiles swings the door open and there he is, in all his asshole-y glory.

“Stilinski,” Jackson says, walking past him and into the house. 

“Jackson, so glad you’re back, please feel free to make yourself at home,” Stiles says deadpan, closing the door behind him.

He follows Jackson into the living room, trying to ignore the renewed panic clawing up his throat. One thing he forgot to take into account is that Jackson’s a werewolf now. If he wants, he could kill Stiles in two seconds. Maim him for life in one.

“Relax,” Jackson says, turning to face him. He unwraps his fancy scarf (it reminds Stiles of Isaac and that makes his chest pang) and shrugs out of his coat, tossing it onto the couch. “I can hear you loud-ass heart beat and it’s driving me insane.”

“Fearing for your life will do that to you,” Stiles snarks back.

“From what I hear, I’m the least dangerous thing that’s threatening lives lately,” Jackson says, sneering. Stiles hates him.

“Fuck you, Jackson,” Stiles snarls, shoving at Jackson’s shoulders. Jackson, of course, doesn’t even stumble, just laughs derisively and pushes Stiles toward the couch. 

“Calm down, Stiliniski, I’m not here to fight,” Jackson says.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Stiles demands, still breathing hard.

“Lydia asked me to come,” Jackson says like that explains everything, which it actually kind of does.

“And she wanted you to because..?”

Jackson sighs and for the first time, that perfectly crafted, GQ façade cracks a bit. “Can you just sit down?” he asks. “I can smell your anxiety and it’s making me edgy.”

“Great, an edgy werewolf, just what I need,” Stiles mutters, but he does as Jackson asks and sits in the very corner of the couch, crossing his legs under his butt. 

“I have perfect control,” Jackson says. “Even around someone as annoying as you.”

“If you’re just here to shit on my self-esteem, I’m already all over that, so you can just take your happy ass right out the way you came,” Stiles says, though as far as insults go, it’s not nearly the worst he’s had from Jackson.

Jackson actually doesn’t say anything, but sits on the edge of the coffee table opposite of Stiles. He leans over, elbows on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him and just stares at Stiles, that creepy stare of his that always made Stiles feel like Jackson was looking at his insides and calculating all the ways to make them into his outsides. Instead of spewing vitriol, Jackson’s voice is actually less harsh when he speaks.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?” Stiles asks.

“That whole blaming yourself for the world ending thing you’ve got going on. It doesn’t help your friends and it doesn’t help you,” Jackson says.

“Wow. WOW,” Stiles says, standing up. “Wow! Thanks, Jackson, for the great advice, I’m so glad you came here to tell me to get over it, that’s really fucking helpful!”

“Calm down,” Jackson says, pushing Stiles in the thigh which makes him topple back onto the couch. Stiles glares but Jackson just gives him his patented eye roll. “Believe it or not, I’m not here to make you feel worse, okay?”

“Whatever,” Stiles says, rubbing his thigh where Jackson pushed him. “Then what can I do for you, oh fearless werewolf?”

“Nightmares, right?” Jackson asks. Stiles stills.

“What?” he says after a few moments.

“Nightmares,” Jackson says again, totally casual like they’re discussing the next lacrosse game, but Stiles sees the tightness in his eyes, can hear the way his voice is just a little deeper than usual. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

“I’m sleeping, I’m-“

“Lying,” Jackson interrupts. “I didn’t either, not at first. Not for a few months.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles asks, confusion overtaking his annoyance.

“Nightmares,” Jackson says again. “I had them for months after I left, no matter how many sleeping pills I took.” Stiles gapes at him. “Then I called Derek and he called me an idiot, said sleeping pills don’t work for werewolves and neither do alcohol and drugs. So I guess that saved me from that.”

“You-you…”

“Lydia said you haven’t been sleeping,” Jackson says. “I’m guessing that’s why.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, too stunned to think about what he’s saying at first but then once he starts, he can’t make himself stop. “If I sleep, it comes, it’s-it’s me stabbing Scott in the stomach, or kidnapping Lydia, fuck, or even things that didn’t happen. It’d show me things it wanted to do, like have me hold my dad’s head underwater, or light Derek on fire then blow it out, and do that over and over until he died. And I wake up screaming and I don’t even know if I’m awake because that’s what it did. And I have to sit up and count my damn fingers all night like a child because I don’t know if it’s real.”

Stiles is panting by the time he’s done, and it just gets worse when he realizes what he’s said. “Oh god,” he wheezes, dropping his head to his hands. The heels of his hands press against him eyes until sparks light up behind his eyelids, but it keeps him from looking at Jackson who’s probably smirking that stupid smirk of his anyways.

But that’s Jackson’s hand on his wrist, tugging his hand away from his face. Stiles peeks an eye open, ready for the judgment or the laughing or the yelling at him for all he’s fucked up, but the other boy is just nodding like that was exactly what he’d expected.

“I can’t go near a pool,” Jackson says and the subject change is so abrupt that Stiles actually shakes his head to make sure he heard Jackson right.

“You can’t go by a pool?” he asks. Jackson just shakes his head, though it looks like it pains him a bit to do it. “Why?”

“I couldn’t as a kanima, and it doesn’t matter that that was Matt’s problem, looks like it’s mine now,” Jackson says and it hits Stiles like a cartoon piano dropping on his head.

Jackson literally knows exactly what Stiles is going through. Of all the people in the whole damn world, Jackson Whittemore is the only one who has even an inkling of what’s happening in his head. Having his bodily autonomy taken, used to kill and torture, unable to do a damn thing while a monster took control of his body and ran wore him like a human coat. Jackson’s leash may have been held by a force outside his body instead of in, like Stiles, but it all came to the same place: two broken boys being used a weapons of pain and death.

Jackson seems to notice the second Stiles realizes what he’s been trying to convey and he gives a small, condescending smile, though it lacks most of his usual heat. “Yeah, sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yeah, it does.”

“What’s your kryptonite?” Jackson asks and Stiles makes a mental note that Jackson knows a nerd reference.

“Besides panic attacks whenever I sleep for more than three seconds?” Stiles says. Jackson gives him a flat look and Stiles rolls his eye. The dude never got his sarcasm. “I can’t do the hospital. I’d better get less clumsy soon then, ‘cause you can’t pay me enough to go back in there.”

“Why the hospital?” Jackson asks.

“Lydia told you what happened, right?” Stiles asks. Jackson nods. “That was a _bloodbath_. I killed so many people there, just had the Oni cut right through anyone and everyone. Fuck, I almost got Melissa, Scott’s mom. And that’s not even touching all the people that got fucked over when I knocked the power out. How many of them were on life support? What about the ones in open heart surgery? Every time I go by, even just driving on the same street, it’s like their ghosts are going to come out and chase me down and kill me like I killed them.” Stiles huffs and runs a hand through his hair, fighting the stinging behind his eyes. “Stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Jackson says. “And the first thing you need to do is stop saying, ‘I’.”

“Saying ‘I’ what?”

“Stop saying, ‘I stabbed them’,” Jackson says. “Stop putting that on yourself. It was that thing using you, no different than if someone stole your car and killed someone in a hit-and-run.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that, I’m sure you did,” Stiles snaps, sarcasm dripping. He still isn’t sure about the sudden heart to heart and with his recent mood swings, well, it was hard to keep in one mindset. “You always did seem like the great humanitarian, I bet it burned you all up inside.”

“Yeah, I’m a dick, Stilinski, I get it okay?” Jackson snaps right back. “Believe it or not, I don’t wish people dead.”

Stiles anger deflates as quickly as it flared up and he sags back into the couch, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I know,” he says quietly. “I don’t-I’m so ready to be mad, all the time. The nogit- _it_ loved anger, and pain, and it’s like it left it all behind. What if that’s all I have left?”

“It’s not,” Jackson says.

“You sound awfully confident,” Stiles mutters.

“The fact that you’re even worried about it means you aren’t as broken as you think,” Jackson says.

Stiles isn’t sure what to say, he just swallows and looks down at his hands, picking at the skin around his nails and trying to keep himself from doing something stupid like bursting into tears. Silence stretches for a few seconds to over a minute when Stiles hears rustling from Jackson. Stiles glances up to see the other boy peering at him with a frown, subtly sniffing the air.

“Are you really about to tell me that I stink?” Stiles asks incredulously. 

Jackson actually snorts at that and shakes his head. “I actually missed your stupid comments. And I swear, if you tell anyone I said that, I will rip out your throat.”

“Not the scariest threat I’ve faced this year,” Stiles says. 

Jackson rolls his eyes and they land on the Sheriff’s liquor cabinet. Stiles follows his gaze and slumps a little. “Oh.”

“Stiles,” Jackson says quietly, which of course makes Stiles about a thousand times more worried about what he was about to say. “Have you been self-medicating?”

Even though he knew what was coming, Stiles still flinches. He shakes his head violently, assaulted by memories of his dad drinking himself stupid after his mom’s death and his heartbeat skyrockets and his breath comes so short that he actually gets dizzy.

Stiles gasps when Jackson’s hand lands on his shoulder. “You need to breathe right now,” Jackson commands. “I swear I’ll slap you shit out of you if you don’t.”

“You’re horrible at this!” Stiles says, but does manage to get himself under control before he gets close to an actual panic attack. “No, no, no my dad after my mom, just no.”

Jackson nods and gives Stiles’ shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “Good,” he says. “I was just checking.”

“Yeah, well thanks, I guess,” Stiles says, getting his breathing back to normal.

“You’re braver than I was,” Jackson says suddenly, like the words are being ripped out of him.

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles asks, genuinely confused. 

“I tried to drink until I forgot,” Jackson admits. “Derek conveniently forgot to mention that werewolves can’t get drunk, though, which was great to figure out. And I ran. I ran to London to avoid people’s looks and facing what I’d done. You didn’t do either of those things. You’re being braver than I was, and if I’m still here, there’s no way you won’t be.”

Stiles stares at Jackson a little stunned and when in doubt, he goes to his default distraction method. Talking. “I think this is the longest conversation we’ve had without you threatening to kill me.”

Jackson actually flinches and Stiles instantly feels like shit. He tries to apologize but Jackson just shakes his head. “No, I deserve that. I know you’ll find it hard to believe, and Lydia calls it soul-searching or whatever, but after everything, violence doesn’t really hold the same appeal anymore. It took six months before I even could play lacrosse again.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I saw two freshmen get in a fight during lunch and I had to leave or I was going to puke on Scott’s shoes.”

“That goes away,” Jackson promises. “I don’t want to say it gets better because that’s cheesy and stupid and probably a lie, but you get better at coping.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jackson confirms. He pauses for a few seconds, then says, “Stiles, you will get through this. And everyone else, well they will too. And if they can’t, fuck ‘em. Everyone that matters is still here for you.”

“You’re sure?” Stiles asks. “I’m not doomed to a life of fucked up?”

“I can’t promise that, Stiliniki, but not any more fucked up than you were before,” Jackson says. Stiles snorts. Jackson smiles slightly then pulls his douche mask up, letting the cockiness cover the person Stiles saw for the last half hour, but now that he knew what Jackson was actually under there, it was easier to see past the asshole disguise. 

Jackson stands and says, “Well, this has been disturbing and not fun, and I’m pretty sure I’ve fulfilled Lydia’s request, so I’m leaving.” 

He turns and makes his way to the door and Stiles follows as Jackson lets himself out, though not before turning on the Stilinkski doorstep and handing Stiles a scrap of paper with him phone number on it. 

“Don’t make this more than it is,” Jackson warns.

“What, you aren’t asking to go steady with me?” Stiles weakly jokes.

“That’s bad, even for you,” Jackson says.

“Yeah, well, if you haven’t heard, I’ve been off my game lately.”

Jackson snorts. “Yeah, you’re gonna be okay,” he says and turns, walking down the porch’s stairs.

“Thanks,” Stiles says before Jackson can get too far away. Jackson turns with an eyebrow raised and Stiles keeps going before he can chicken out. “I know neither of us ever thought we’d have a Dr. Phil moment on my couch and it was super weird, but seriously, uh, thanks.”

Jackson nods slowly, looking a little surprised that someone was thanking him for something and Stiles suddenly wondered how many people have actually acted grateful to him, especially since he left, and how many people, if any, managed to see past that arrogant veneer.

“You’re welcome, Stilinski,” Jackson says.

“Oh!” Stiles says, and gets a wicked grin on his face. “Lydia knows how to make wolfsbane-infused beer by the way. In case you’re over your alcholic desires and ever decide to get a little tipsy.”

Jackson’s eyes bug out. “Are you serious? And she never told me?!”

Stiles shrugs. “Pretty sure Derek knows, too.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jackson mutters and stalks down the Stilinski driveway and into his Porsche, peeling out, probably on his way to demand the recipe.

Stiles texts Lydia once he gets back inside, _I really hate it that you’re right all the time._

Two minutes later, he gets, _You really should be used to it, sweetheart._


End file.
